Yes my Thane
by wunderwolfer
Summary: I can't really think of a synopsis so I'm just going to keep it nice and simple - this is a Skyrim Lydia x Dragonborn/Dovahklin oneshot. Lots of angst and lots of drama


I can't really think of a synopsis so I'm just going to keep it nice and simple - this is a Skyrim **Lydia x Dragonborn** oneshot.

**Warnings**: This has been written without defining the narrator's gender therefore if your mind is that way inclined (as mine certainly is) it could be construed as **femslash. **So if even a whiff of fem x fem pairings makes your nostrils flare with fiery flarey indignation it's probably best you skip this one and move onto the next Fanfic but if you really don't care about that sort of thing then please read on and let me know what you think. There are also some **small** **spoilers** if you haven't met Lydia yet but nothing major or endgame.

Rated t just to be safe.

A big thank you to my FF Bro **AQA473** for being a beta for this story. He honestly made it ten times better than it was.

Disclaimer: everything in this Fanfic belongs to Bethesda

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"Yes my thane."

Bristling; that's the best way to describe her words. The way they make you flinch, your shoulders hunch, the way they make you shake with irritation, they make you pause. You keep your eyes forward and continue moving deeper into the cave, her always two steps behind you, as you try to remember when such innocuous sounding words began to have such an effect.

When the Jarl offered you a Housecarl, you accepted out of reverence and respect. You expected to be given some battle-weary solider or inadequate warrior they could afford to lose but who you received seemed neither. Relationships and befriending people were always such tasks, typically preferring to travel in solitude, but some tasks seemed too challenging for your current skills. You surprised yourself when you asked the woman, who was your newly appointed Housecarl, to accompany you. You secretly planned it as an opportunity to find about this curious woman. Your instincts were proved correct as you found a formidable woman skilled in mêlée combat, though a little too eager to rush into battle. Impressed by her strength and fearlessness, you were intrigued and that made you wary.

You're unsure why you find your current relationship so frustrating. Perhaps it is your upbringing. In your culture, you follow the strong or the wise. You are certainly not wise (otherwise wouldn't even be in this cave in the first place) and she is stronger than you are so you're bewildered to why she would take any of your orders. It seems unfair for her to be pledged to one such as you. You consider her your equal and, if it wasn't for your, blood you would be. You don't want her to follow you aimlessly; you want... you're not sure what you want. Rather than a servant, you desire a companion; a comrade to walk beside you, but not behind you.

You ask aloud whether she always has to walk behind you. She pauses and answers.

"Yes, my Thane."

She is testing your patience. You look to the heavens, eyes closed. Irritated, you flinch and your jaws clench shut. You think she is mocking you and you spin around searching her face for any sign of ridicule but her face seems sincere, almost blank. She's so difficult to read. You cannot understand how a warrior can be so compliant to someone who is her equal or, if you are honest with yourself, even her inferior in battle. That's why those three words annoy you. Because they confirm how others perceive the dynamics of your relationship; you need her and she has sworn to follow you.

She obeys you without question or comment. Outwardly, she diligently fulfills her oath as your Housecarl but you have spent too much time together to believe that her willingness to follow is due merely to her sense of honor and duty. You decide she must be hiding something in her head, something behind those dreadful words that goes beyond the surface…

She raises a questioning eyebrow and you realize you've been standing still, staring, while she's waited patiently for her leader to press on. Unashamed at being caught, you snort derisively and continue to walk deeper into the tombs with her trailing close behind you.

Further into mountain, the tomb narrows into a long, dark passage that opens into an invitingly larger space. Any fool could have seen it was a poorly hidden trap. However, this one was built so only those trained in the dragons' tongue could pass through unharmed. Seeing a perfect opportunity to test how committed your Housecarl is to her charade, you turn to her with a smile and order her to go first. Yet your smile drops as she nods and moves around you showing every intention of walking straight into the obvious trap.

Muttering a curse and rolling your eyes in exasperation, you grab her arm a little harder than necessary to prevent her from moving. Pulling her back, you face her angrily asking her whether she has to do everything you say. She pauses and answers.

"Yes, my Thane."

Loudly, you curse her stupidity and her stubbornness, you curse the day you entered Whiterun, and the day that you even met her! You growl at her to remain here and remove your hand with disdain. If she will not show her true colours, you will at least succeed at plundering the foulest reaches of the tomb. You stand before the trap, mere footsteps away from shattered skin and torn sinew, and recite the words in your head before peeling apart your lips.

You shout.

The trap was little more than a hiccup and a failed opportunity in your journey. You move onward determined to finish at least something. Entering the tomb, your body trembles in the anticipation of the ancient words of the dragonkin hidden from your view. Your blood can sense it and the thought of the power it could offer makes your eyes roll back in ecstasy. You want it, but you've been in enough tombs to know that every wall of dovah text is bound to a keeper and you sigh heavily as the Draugr lord stands from its throne of moss and mold. Coffins around the room explode with dust and stone revealing armed Draugr servants rising from their graves.

No time to disable the traps for Lydia, you equip your weapon using the few seconds before the undead reach you to plan a strategy. Before you can utter a shout or even lift your weapon, however, someone is pushing past you, recklessly rushing into your fight.

Lydia has disobeyed your orders to protect you and your heart soars. You look on dumbfounded as she gives her battle cry and skillfully wields her axe to cut down your enemies, her strength and bravery in battle still amazing you. Her insubordination is beautiful. With the lesser dead felled, she turns towards the overlord and the reality of the situation crashes down on you as you're filled with dread. You see that her swings are not sure and fluid but instead unstable and labored; she is bleeding from her side, a wound from the traps she ran through to reach you. In defiance to her wounds, Lydia raises her heavy axe preparing herself for the final enemy. Her pain is obvious on her face and in her motions but she ignores it all to approach the Draugr. You watch in horror as it opens its rotting jaw and an unintelligible word of ancient origins sends your Housecarl through the air. Her body crashes into a shattered coffin and falls limp in the debris.

Enraged, you roar protectively and run towards her body. Standing between her and the overlord, you reply to his speech with a shout of your own intensified by an emotion you're not ready to name. The remaining Draugr flies away from you smashing onto the ground at the far end of the room. You pick up Lydia's weapon and walk to the crippled overlord. Silently wishing its soul never finds its way to Sovngarde, you grip the axe tightly and decapitate the powerful guardian leaving its limp form in the rubble of the vast chamber.

When you turn towards Lydia again, she is clutching at her side, doubled over, and her head bowed as she tries to stand. Relieved that she lives, you rush to her aid, place her weapon on the ground, and help her onto her feet leaning her against the wall to rest. Concern makes you brave and you gently lift her chin with your hand, her skin is softer than you imagined, and ask if she is alright.

"Yes, my Thane."

You frown as she lies. She rejects your care, removes your hand, and pushes herself away from the wall grimacing as she stands upright and ready for her Thane. Infuriated, wanting any expression except her docility, you lean forward locking eyes with her and, with two fingers, sharply tap her damaged ribs. She cries out once, breathing heavily through her nose, but doesn't retaliate or move. She simply stands there as you hurt her like the good Housecarl she is. Her brow furrows and her eyes water narrowing in pain and immediately you feel ashamed and regretful. Apologizing, you touch her side ashamed as she flinches apprehensively. You move your hand to hover above her injury and chant the only spell you know to heal her wound.

You're shocked and horrified by your actions. You never thought you would hurt her but your frustration and egotism have distorted and twisted your intentions; you wish for her liberation, for her choices to be her own, yet you want to force your desires upon her in your impetuous wish for her to be your partner. You see everything clearly and answer your own question.

"You do it because you are my Housecarl and I am your Thane."

She shifts uneasily as your bottom lip wobbles threatening tears this time. She frowns in confusion and you think you see her answer in her hesitancy. You cannot bear to hear her rejection so, before she can utter a sound, you move faster ordering her to travel back to Whiterun while filling her arms with some provisions and all the potions you have. You tell her you don't need her anymore. She just nods at you stunned by your erratic behavior.

Shamefaced, you turn your back to her and walk away making sure not to look behind you so she doesn't see you broken. This one-sided affection has made you too dangerous for her to be around. You tell yourself its better this way.

Months have passed.

You don't return to Breezehome until forced to visit Whiterun on business. But before you do, you endure every encountered trial and training to make sure that you will never need _her_ again. Returning late by mistake or by design, hoping she's asleep to delay the rehearsed conversation, you tip-toe up the stairs of your old home. Passing her open door, you pause surprised to see the early riser's candles are lit. Half hidden by the door you curiously peer into her room and the sight within steals your breath.

She is casually lying on her bed reading a book and wearing your old under-tunic that you thought had been discarded. A simple enough scenario, but you've never seen her without her armour and she looks relaxed and content as she gently hums a song you do not recognize. Her hair is loose. Without its usual plaits, it falls freely around her shoulders as she idly twists the ends with her finger only pausing to turn a page of the book laid in front of her.

You thought her beautiful before but, in this half-light, at ease and in her element, she is truly magnificent. Fully absorbed in the book she has taken from your belongings, she seems oblivious to your presence. Captivated and longing to commit everything to memory, you unconsciously move further into the room. The floor creaks and you curse silently as you're caught. Astonished eyes meet yours and she moves quickly, readying herself to stand to attention while bashfully pulling down at the tunic as she straightens her posture.

Suddenly, all you want is to stop her and speak a thousand different words. Without thinking, the question you've been dying to ask leaves your lips unfettered. She frowns and your heart drops heavily in your chest. Embarrassed by how desperate you seem, you squeeze your eyes shut; you don't want to see her pity or contempt.

The floorboards creak beneath her as she moves. She stops in front of you. You're terrified, too afraid to look but, as moments pass and she doesn't console or berate you, your other senses reach out towards her with intrigue.

Your heart beats loudly, the anticipation pounding in your chest. Air moves as she slowly leans in, skin tingling, so close she invades and suffocates. Smelling of sharpening oil and cedar wood, you breathe her in and the scent leaves you intoxicated. You reach out to steady yourself and find that your body is braver than you are as its hands clings to her preventing any more distance between you.

Your breath quickens and you limbs tremble; a demonstration of weakness. You should be ashamed. For any other, you would be, but not for her. For her, you want to give everything, you want to show her how vulnerable you can be.

So fragile… just one word, the one you've waited for so long could break you. But her relief is uncharacteristically slow and the possibility that it may be deliberate, teasing, fills your head with such dizzying potential you couldn't open your eyes even if you wanted too.

Finally, she whispers those three words you've longed to hear and you're gasping, shattering, falling.

Her breath is warm and wet against your ear so you know you're not dreaming.

"No, my Thane."

* * *

So there it is a little experiment in second person narrative, not sure I've pulled off this style but then you'll be the judge of that.

It was inspired by being frustrated at the limited dialogue with my companions, I know there's only so much they can fit into it but it was still a little irritating at times.

Anyway, I lovey dovey wuvey feedback and any suggestions for improvements.

Thanks for reading all the way to the end...


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